


Little God

by translorastyrell (nerddowell)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (yay that rhymes!), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Come Shot, Dom/sub Undertones, Elia Martell Lives, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possibly Blasphemy, Renly is not the chastest of maesters, Rhaegar Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-08-28 04:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/translorastyrell
Summary: ‘Little king,’ he whispers, voice thick and heated, and the young man shivers.‘I was never a king.’‘I heard you telling Loreza,’ he corrects him, ‘that you were king of all you surveyed at the age of eight. And a wizard the next day, the rain god after that.’ He smiles. ‘Perhaps I should call you a little god, then. Worship you.’A canon-era/divergence AU in which Robert marries Lyanna, the Tourney of Harrenhal has a Dornish queen of love and beauty, Rhaegar lives (and so does Elia) to become king (and queen), and Renly becomes a maester to the Martells in Dorne, where he spends more time making up stories and games for the children - and breaking his maester's vows of celibacy - than he does studying.Renly Week 2018fill for Day 4: Canon divergence.





	Little God

The child is tucked up in her bed, wide-eyed and rapt at attention, as the young man settles beside her and opens the book. She is the image of her mother, all olive Dornish skin and bright brown eyes, a dusting of freckles from a lifetime playing by the pools in the summer sun across her nose. The man smiles at her, tracing his finger down the page to find where they had left off, and begins to read.

‘Once upon a time, there were three brothers. One was a great warrior, so strong he could hold up all the sky on his shoulders, and wearing a great steel helm with antlers like a buck deer. He was married to a highborn lady of the North, whom he loved very much, and they lived in the capital city, the warrior high on the war councils and his lady wife a popular companion to the queen. The next was a great lord, always sitting in judgment for his smallfolk and taking account of his lands. He was also married, to a daughter of a vassal lord, and they resided in the brothers’ familial seat in the Stormlands. The last was neither a great warrior nor a great lord, not even a great man; he had no real lands nor titles, these having gone to his brothers, and although he was kind and had an excellent sense of humour – and was very handsome, even if he said so himself – there was little left for him in the lands where he was born. So he went to the old citadel in the south to devote himself to learning.

‘Some of the lessons he was taught were deathly dull.’ He pulls a face to make the child laugh, and she giggles into her hands. ‘The lecturers at the citadel seemed as old as the towers themselves, and many were as crumbly and bent-over, with faces like scrunched-up parchment and weak, scratchy voices like wind blown through a reed-’ Again, he imitates it, an uncanny and bordering on cruel impression of the head of the Oldtown university, a Maester Coplen, who indeed had seemed to be as old as the realm with his blind eyes and voice like the whispering of something already dead. ‘-‘Acolyte!’ they would say to him, in tones like a mother scolding her child whilst he lay outside enjoying the warm summer rain on his face, ‘why are you not hard at study?’ And the young man would say, ‘But I am! I am learning why the rain falls down instead of up, and how the grass feels so soft under my feet, and what the earth smells like.’ ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ they would reply. But the young man didn’t care. He had no mind for books and lessons, though he had plenty of curiosity and imagination, and although he didn’t learn perhaps everything they might have liked him to, he was educated there. Until he was sent to a southron kingdom to serve the princes and princesses of their great castle.’

‘Here!’ the child cries, beaming, and the young man nods. ‘Here indeed. Here where he is a servant to Princes Doran and Oberyn of Dorne, and their families. Although,’ and he leans in close, as though bestowing a secret upon the child’s eager ears, and she leans in to hear, ‘he has a very favourite princess. Maybe you know her? She is six years old, and she lives in the fourth tower of the castle, and she always keeps a toy kitten sat on her pillow in the bed-’

The child laughs, throwing her arms around his neck, and presses kisses to his face until he laughs too, smoothing her dark curls back off her forehead.

‘I love that story the best,’ Loreza tells him, and Renly smiles.

‘I know, princess.’

‘You tell it so well, with the maesters and the citadel. Is that where Father met you?’

‘It was indeed. Your father was visiting the citadel, a long time before you were born – because I am nearly as old as those maesters, you know; I have clips behind my ears to pull my skin taut to hide the wrinkles.’ He pulled at his cheeks to demonstrate, and she shrieked with laughter, shaking her head – ‘No! No, you’re lying!’. Renly grinned at her. ‘Your father, when he was younger, almost became a crotchety old maester like me, did you know that? He’s far cleverer than me, though. Many more links to his chain. But instead, when your uncle grew ill and your aunt became queen, he came back to Dorne to help rule, and had you and all of your sisters.’

‘Obara and Tyene and Sarella and Nymeria and Elia and Obella and Dorea!’

‘You have a better memory than me, sweetling,’ Renly tells her, chuckling, ‘it’s all I can do to remember my own name sometimes, in my dotage.’

‘You’re not old!’ the child says loyally, and he smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear.

‘That’s as may be, little one, but it is time for small princesses to say goodnight,’ comes her father’s voice from the doorway, and child and maester turn in unison to see Prince Oberyn’s dark eyes sparkling in their direction, his mouth upturned in a smile. ‘Let poor Maester Renly go back to his books and his studies.’

‘What are you learning about?’ Loreza asks, and Renly points out of the window.

‘Do you see all of those stars?’ he asks her, and she nods. ‘When I was your age, I thought they were holes poked in the sky by the fingers of the gods so that they could peep through and watch all of us down here. I am still somewhat convinced I must have been right. So I am reading through all of my old septon’s books, trying to find evidence. Shall I let you know when I come to a conclusion?’

She nods, stretching, and yawns as wide as her window, as if she means to drink the night and swallow all of those far distant stars. Her maester climbs to his feet, tucks the book back into the sleeve of his robes, and bids her goodnight, retiring to his own chambers. Her father tucks the sheets more securely around her in bed, bends to brush his lips over her forehead, and closes the door behind him.

‘You are a natural mummer, Renly,’ he tells the maester as he catches up with him in one of Sunspear’s winding corridors. ‘How you became a maester is a mystery to me.’

‘To me also!’ the young man laughs. ‘I have no mind for books. The citadel despaired of me. I was not lying to your daughter when I told her I was more often out barefoot in the rain, making up stories and games for myself, than squirrelled away in some dusty library buried in scrolls. Study suits me ill, I’m afraid.’

Oberyn laughs, rich and musical, and leans down to nuzzle at his throat. ‘And what was this I heard about the prince of Dorne being much cleverer than his maester? His education much more rounded?’

Renly grins at him, knowing exactly what Oberyn is implying, what he is asking for. He fakes a shrug. ‘I couldn’t say. Perhaps the prince is growing as old and senile as his maester, if he is hearing things from the corridors.’

Oberyn growls playfully, opening the door to Renly’s chambers and pushing him inside, already working on divesting the young man of his robes. Renly laughs, moving to help and inevitably growing tangled in the swathes of fabric, trying to throw off his habit to revel in the nakedness beneath. The lord of Sunspear yanks the robes off over his head and pushes the maester again, down to his knees, as he seats himself in a chair, as regal as a king on his throne.

His legs fall open, suggestive, and the maester’s eyes are drawn to the prominent bulge in the front of his breeches. One beringed hand rubs over his cock, squeezing and massaging softly, as the other comes up to cup the maester’s chin, directing his gaze back up into the black depths of the prince’s.

‘Little king,’ he whispers, voice thick and heated, and the young man shivers.

‘I was never a king.’

‘I heard you telling Loreza,’ he corrects him, ‘that you were king of all you surveyed at the age of eight. And a wizard the next day, the rain god after that.’ He smiles. ‘Perhaps I should call you a little god, then. Worship you.’

‘Don’t let any septons hear you say that,’ the young man breathes, voice shaky, and the prince smirks.

‘Perhaps I will. Kneel there, little god, let me look at you.’ Oberyn’s eyes, dark as pitch, rake over the young man’s body, goosebumps prickling at his pale skin, as that bejewelled hand continues to press and massage over the growing bulge in the prince’s pants until it moves to unlace them and draw out his cock.

The maester makes a soft whining noise in his throat, starting forwards to take it into his mouth, and the prince restrains him with a hand in his hair, tutting under his breath.

‘Ah-ah, little one, no touching. A god’s hands must not be sullied by the clay of a mortal.’ His voice is reverent, soft and slow, but there’s an edge of teasing, and the maester whimpers again, impatient.

‘A god should also not be kept _waiting_ ,’ he argues breathlessly, and the prince’s lips curl into another smirk.

‘You are quite right,’ he agrees, and begins to move his hand over his cock, stroking slowly. It was long and thick in his grasp, flushed red at the tip. Inches from Renly’s lips, close enough almost to flick out his tongue and lick away the moisture beading at the slit, taste the burst of salt and arousal in his mouth; he moans softly, trying to arch forward again, and Oberyn’s fingers tighten in his hair.

‘No,’ he murmurs, ‘just watch.’

Watch Renly does, in a state of torment, as Oberyn’s hips begin to rock lazily into his fist, his hand glancing over the tip to spread the beading slick over the shaft, lubricating his strokes until his palm makes a soft wet noise every time he runs his hand up and down over his cock. The prince’s gaze is intent and heated on Renly’s face as he strokes himself; the maester whines again, tortured, and the prince grunts at the huff of warm air over the tip of his cock. It twitches in his hand, and his hips rise, pushing it faster through the tight, warm ring of his fingers.

‘Are you ready?’ the prince grits out, body beginning to tense against the back of the chair, voice low and hoarse. ‘Are you ready, little god?’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Renly gasps, watching Oberyn’s body go tense, feeling the hand in his hair grip tighter and pull him forward all of a sudden. He closes his eyes and feels the viscous wetness splash across his face, dripping down over the bridge of his nose, spattered tantalisingly over his lower lip. Above him, Oberyn lets out a breathless groan, loud in the sudden silence of the room around them.

‘ _Renly_. Little king, little god, my love.’

He blinks open his eyes, fixing his gaze on Oberyn’s face as he slowly licks the prince’s seed from his lips, the rest spread like lines and beads of pearl over his nose and cheekbones. Oberyn reclines back in his chair with a pleased shudder, his satisfied cock hanging heavily between his still-spread legs, framed by flame-red Dornish silk like an offering to a pagan god, and Oberyn leans down to kiss him, moaning at the taste of himself on Renly’s tongue.

‘Go clean up, sweetling, and then I will see you in bed.’

Renly smiles, nodding, and does as ordered.


End file.
